It was nearing eleven o’clock on Tuesday night as I hugged my girlfriends goodbye and headed to my car. As I made my way through the quiet parking lot, I realized I was not ready to drive home just yet. I only had a few glasses of wine, but I was feeling happily buzzed. It was the first warm night since winter, so I decided to take a stroll around the city.
The streets were empty and quiet except for the sound of intoxicated people chatting and laughing over cigarettes outside a nearby bar. The Pinot Grigio and spring breeze had me feeling carefree and confident, and I didn’t want the night to end.
As I checked the cost of an Uber and considered going to the bar, I received a Tinder message from a 39-year-old named David. It was nothing too exciting—just a generic response to my generic opening line. I noticed he was less than a mile away, so I asked him if he wanted to hang out. His address was the fourth and final message in our exchange.